


Small Stories, Wide World

by TempleMap



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Culture Studies, F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebuilding Hyrule, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-08-02 04:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempleMap/pseuds/TempleMap
Summary: There is no kingdom, just as there is no longer the Calamity. All that's left, is to learn how to exist again."Her body bends. Her hands reach out. Blonde hair falls against the woodwork, her forehead pressed against the floor. She could crawl into the grave, if the earth would only allow her. Her bow is as deep as her sorrow; and she says, lower than them all, 'Forgive me, please. Forgive me of it all.'"A collection of moments from the post-BOTW world.





	1. Chapter 1

They sleep like cats in the afternoon sun; curled in on themselves, confined to the little sunspots eking in through open windows.  

Bandaged and bathed some hours prior, they doze, barely an arm's length of distance from another. Two blankets on each of them (they had arrived shivering; the chill of twilight behind their shoulders; Link's teeth chattering, Zelda's breath scattering like smoke into the air; covered in mud and blood and rainwater). 

And Impa watches them. In his sleep, Link grimaces -- the muscles in his face flinching from a nightmare. His hand clenches and un-clenches. Zelda, as still as death. 

They are so small. They are so pale. In comparison, the dark wood of the great room seems like the great belly of a beast, enveloping and gargantuan from every angle. How such children were able to perform miracles, Impa could never understand. 

"The air tastes better," whispers Paya, at Impa's side. She's exhausted; the skin beneath her eyes as purple as a bruise. She had been almost two days without sleep. Pacing. The floorboards from the top floor creaking beneath her anxious footfalls. 

But now, like all of them, the tightness behind her breastbone had loosened. Indeed, the air tasted better. The viscous heaviness that had bogged it down, now dissipating. 

It's noon, at the cusp of spring, and the Calamity is, at last, eradicated. 

\--

There’s a warm, new joy to the house that Paya gladly basks in. Her hands unfold the lip of an old sleeve. It’s a beautiful garment, and so she works carefully. Smoothing out the stubborn wrinkles, eyeing the blue embroidery with a tactile sense of care and scrutiny that had been her birthright. Her grandmother works beside her, pulling dresses and tunics and trousers and ceremonial garb from a trunk as old and dark as a forest. 

 “This,” says Impa, smiling, “Is the Royal Guard’s uniform.” And she pulls out a uniform of maroon and indigo and white. A beautiful undershirt and its adorning over-layer. Trousers, and its accompanying white boots. A tilted beret. The crest of the royal family carefully sewn on each piece. She lays them out across the floor and hums. 

“Look at that,” she says with a quieted huff of amusement. She points to the sleeve lengths. “I think Link’s gotten taller since the last time he wore this.” 

Paya tries to imagine him wearing something so royal, but it’s too difficult an image to conjure. He’s all too haphazard now, with his grin even lopsided and feral when she’s seen it. 

“Has he changed a lot?” she asks.

“In ways,” says Impa, refolding the uniform. There's a small stack of clothing against her left hip; a collection of outfits from 100 years ago. Most Zelda's. Some Link's. 

"But I'm sure," says Paya, and there's a painful hitch in her throat. "I'm sure he's still just as loyal to Princess Zelda."

"Oh course," says Impa. "It's innate in him. I'm sure this isn't the first lifetime he's served her." 

"They must be happy. I'm sure they are."

Impa nods; she pulls another dress. 

"It will be nice," Paya continues, and she can sense them there, asleep in warm futons just a staircase below them, "To see what they're like together." 

And Impa's hands still. The old, patterned dress in her hands coming to rest on her folded lap. "It will be different," she says, simply. There's an oddness there, and Paya can feel it. There's something sad and forlorn and nostalgic in the words. 

And she's not a fool. 

"Aren't his memories--?"

"Yes," says Impa. "He knows some, as you know. A few snippets here and there, child. But what are-- Well..." and she thinks for a moment, "What are ten minutes of memories compared to what used to be twenty-one years of experiences?"

And both women grow still at the thought, and the evening seems to settle; a tepid, little wind pushing in through the window left half-ajar. Not a stir from the first floor. 

"At his core, he is the same," Impa whispers, and returns the dress to its trunk. "But who Zelda will awake to, is a much different man."

 

 -----

 

Link awakens first, reeling, to the feeling of Paya's fingertips against the cut on his cheek. Joined, by the sting of medicine hissing into the wound. 

And he reacts like an animal jolted; twisting his spine with a sharp intake of breath; his legs already kicking before his brain says 'go.' He's pivoted on his feet before the jostled "Oh!" escapes from Paya's mouth. 

It's his aching muscles that stall his reflexes. The hand ready to grip whatever weapon nearby halts. His eyes adjust, and he can see, and he can think with something more than just adrenaline. And it's enough of a break to keep Paya from flying. 

"Careful," says Impa across the room, her voice easy and melodic. 

And  _Goddess_ , he thinks. 

He's embarrassed. His face flushes. He stares at Paya, now wide-eyed and wordless. And his mouth opens, and he aims to apologize, but the words get stuck there, at the apex of his tight throat. He manages out, "I..." before she finds the words to blurt:

"I'm so sorry, Master Link," and she's as agog as he; her voice but a high, rushed whisper, "I shouldn't have-- I was just worried. I saw the cut bleeding again and I--"

"You'll need to taper that habit," intrudes Impa. She motions for him to come closer, to where she sits at her usual perch. "You can't go swinging your sword every time someone startles you awake. At least, not when you're in good company. Now then, let's see how you're healing."

He gives Paya a hand to help her to her feet, and she feels the tremor in his body as he pulls her up. He's haggard, bruised up and down his arms. Lip split. Bandaged.

Yet, his disposition is gentle. His brows at ease, his expression soft. When Impa grips his chin, he tilts his head easily -- a ragdoll, almost. And Impa squints at every bruise and tear, unwrapping and re-wrapping with inspection.

"You're lucky," she says under her breath. But the word 'luck' feels bitter on her tongue. He is cursed by fate, more likely. Nevertheless...

"I regret I didn't have one of my own accompany you to the castle. It would have been better, had you taken medicine before your long ride here."

And Link clears his throat. Half-awake again, he glances at Impa, to the gauze she unwraps from rice-paper packages. 

“I took medicine as we rode here.”  

(Zelda, her arms wrapped around his waist, to hold steady from the sway of Epona’s trot. They’re exhausted. Hurting. Relieved. Jittery in their veins and lungs. There’s enough adrenaline to keep them from collapsing. It feels strange to exist in the world again, Zelda had said. She reaches into his bag as they stop to gather water from the river. One hundred years later, she’s the same; plucking herbs and un-spooling bandages to relieve the worst of Link’s deep gashes. “Thank you,” she whispers, halfway to tears with each wound she dresses. “I’m so sorry.”)

And the memory makes his heart race. And the meticulous care from Impa, suddenly, feels odd and prickly on his skin. The way her small hands work to wrap his wrist -- a sort of gentleness he never even spared for himself. It’s too foreign; he’s too wild and self-sufficient to find peace in such consideration. He’s marred by jagged lines on his skin from failed attempts at stitches, a nose slightly off balance from a failure at resetting it. He's slept on his feet, collapsed from exhaustion, has eaten all things raw and rotten and dubious just to put something in his stomach.

Had he lived like this before? Unlikely; a guard in the castle was given a bed and a meal once his duty was done. But now, everything opposite of that, is all he knows.  

And at Impa's next touch, he flinches. 

He hadn't been so restless before, he realizes. When next to the river, in the dead of night, Zelda -- half-breathless and looking all too small in his snowquill coat -- bandaged his chest. Added ointment to the open blisters on his palms. Her neck had dipped, blonde hair falling forward, as she rested her forehead against the curve of his wrist, and he could feel the hotness of tears as she gripped him, one hand against his chest, the other clutching his bleeding, open hand.

_“I’m sorry”_ she had said _, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”_

 

\-----

 

It's a relief when she awakes in the early evening. There's a stone in his stomach he hadn't been aware of. But when her eyes open, it uncurls, that anxiety. 

It's the first time he feels like crying. 

\-----

 

"Where were you?" asks Impa.

"I don't know."

"The sacred realm, perhaps."

"It was... it felt like dreaming. Or, restless sleeping, maybe. It felt like going to sleep, and you wake up, and hours in the night have passed, but it feels as short as seconds." Zelda pauses. Her hands in her lap look so very thin and pale. She stares at them, instead of the dinner set out before her. "I would dream every so often. It was hazy, mostly. But I think... I think they weren't dreams, but I was seeing what was actually happening, outside of wherever I was." 

Impa nods. Understanding.

"I was aware,  always, of two things," Zelda continues. "Link, and the beast." 

They're gathered around the table -- a short-legged piece of furniture, light enough for Paya to carry out of the closet when she and her grandmother take dinner. Dinner had not been meager; seared trout, pickled vegetables, a thin soup, rice. Paya had prepared a cup of tea for all four of them; the food for dinner had been kindly cooked by Dorian ("I'm sure everyone is tired, so I made extra for you," he had said). 

"You're connected by the goddesses," Impa says. She picks from the trout on her plate, pulling out shining flesh with her chopsticks (Link's mouth waters again; he regrets eating his so quickly). "So to hear that, I am not surprised." 

A small silence falls. 

And then, "I've asked the village to gather here tomorrow morning to acknowledge and celebrate your reign, if that would please you both." 

Link looks to Zelda first. And her lips press together, her eyes look to him. 

And she says, "I'm not sure I'm ready." 

"What worries you?" 

"I'm unfit to be queen." 

"You have sealed away the embodiment of evil. Your blood is the blood of the goddess Hylia. In what way does this make you unfit to be queen?"

"My kingdom is one of ashes," says Zelda, and she can feel the tension pulling in her shoulders. 

_You are heir to a throne of nothing--_

"Indeed," says Impa, and the acknowledgement stings. "But it is your kingdom." 

 Zelda can’t eat. Food pressed against her lips makes her gag. The tea manages to fill whatever hungry void she finds impossible to feel.

Link stares at her untouched plate and bowl.

“You can have it,” she says.

He shakes his head. Looks at her with worry.

Impa, from across the small table, mimics the expression. “I haven’t seen you eat,” she says, voicing the thoughts of both of them.

“I haven’t been hungry. I still feel strange.”

“The soup then, at least.”

The soup. She looks down at it. The soup she can at least do. Try.

“You’re mortal again, Zelda,” says Impa. “It’s important you recognize that.” 

 

\-----

 

She says it again. 

“Just Zelda.”

Link stares at her. Blinking. Her half-unfolded futon feeling featherweight in his hands.

She watches his face twist into worry. He thinks for a half-second too long.

Then, with trepidation:

“Was that… Not what I called you?”

There’s a heaviness, suddenly, in Zelda’s chest. She can feel it thumping against her sternum. It feels cold. It radiates. It’s the prick of sorrow, she realizes, as her voice shivers, asking, “What do you mean?”

Link shifts on his feet awkwardly. It’s late in the night, and their beds are only halfway made. Above them, on the second floor, the buzz of Impa’s snore rises and falls. Crickets chirp outside the home, melodic in the windy spring night. His face feels warm. “I don’t… I’m sorry, I don’t remember how I addressed you, before…”

The breath she releases feels painful. “‘Princess Zelda,’ as you just called me.”

Link nods. But his expression remains ascrew.

She wants to clutch his face and shake him. Jolt him or jostle him to crack his brain back into shape, and to beg to know what else he’s missing. But all she can say is —

“No.” And she sighs. “There’s more than that.”

She starts again, “When I met you first, you called me, ‘Your Esteemed Royal Highness, Princess Zelda.’ And then I never heard another word from you until the next week. And then, on field surveys, maybe you wanted to say as little as possible — I’m not sure— I became ‘Your Highness.’”

He’s understanding. Nodding, even though the moments escape him.

“And one day, I think in the summer, we were with Urbosa—” she studies his eyes, looking for recognition; breathes a little easier when she sees the acknowledgement of familiarity there “—and she laughed at you when you said, ‘Your Highness.’ I think, after that, was when you called me ‘Princess Zelda,’ instead.”

“And then,” she continues, “When the Calamity hit…” And she can imagine it again, one hundered years ago: Link with his arms around her; she’s sobbing into his chest; there’s mud and blood caked up to their knees, and she’s crying. She’s screaming. It’s raining, dark in that damned forest, and she’s collapsing with every heave and he’s speaking to her, whispering, his own voice breaking because of this hellhole, and he’s talking to her, and he’s saying, he’s saying—

“Then… you called me ‘Zelda.’”

There is no acknowledgement of the memory upon his features. His eyes are blank. His mouth set in a thin line.

It destroys her. 

\--

Morning, and the gown she’s given is familiar. Heavy and regal — blue and white and gold. Ever diligent, Impa had kept it well. No hem out of place; no thread unfurling. It feels wrong to wear it, but she does.

She’s upstairs, and outside the window, a thick cloud has settled over the village. The fog weaves through homes and gardens, leaving the atmosphere white, as white as white as white as, she thinks (her memory seems to fade in and out now, from those 100 years), she thinks it’s as white as that realm she had sealed herself — and the beast — in.

What had she been doing all that time?

“I like how pale it is outside. It’s kinda like the land is being purified, you know?” rises a voice from the first floor.

There’s a murmur down there, below her feet. The heat from so many people radiates up through the wood, into the room where she waits for Impa’s calling.

She thinks of Link in the midst of it. She knows where he’s standing. Impa had gone over the theatrics (“They’re not theatrics,” had been the correction earlier), placing him to what would be her left, in front of the small alcove where a sacred scripture hung. Impa herself, near the glowing Shieka heirloom (“I’ve seen so many of those,” Link had whispered). Zelda, of course, in the middle, seated, facing her people as a queen should.

“Zelda.” And its Impa. The house has gone quiet. Impa, in the door frame, reaches a hand out to her.

Zelda takes it, and descends the stairs. 

\--

Silence. Silence, when she enters the clearing. Silence, as she takes her seat, upon her folded knees. Silence, as she looks across the gathering of people whom had been born and grown old as she remained stagnant.

And then, the knees bend; each row of persons dipping where they stood, into a bow, with their faces radiant and pointed to her.

And Zelda watches in silence.

Silence.

And it overwhelms her, the sight of it. The sickness of it. It ravages her and beats against her breastbone and she wants to shriek and bury herself within the rubble her folly had caused.

But instead, her body bends. Her hands reach out. Blonde hair falls against the woodwork, her forehead pressed against the floor. She could crawl into the grave, if the earth would only allow her. Her bow is as deep as her sorrow; and she says, lower than them all, “Forgive me, please. Forgive me of it all.”

\--

 Even when they cheer and gather around her, when they sing old songs of glory of the royal family and its kingdom, still, she feels as murderous as fire. 

 

\-----

 

It’s late. Half the village is home, sleeping off the effects of rice wine.

The few left have made this progress: there is still no set plan. The only certainty is that of the uncertain.

The Zora, perhaps, would be faithful. As creatures with lifetimes spanning centuries, they can confirm Zelda’s true identity and lineage. By signatures, treaties, old alliances, and promises, they should still acknowledge her claim to Hyrule and the borders of its kingdom.

The Gorons, uninterested in warfare or politics aside from trade, should acknowledge her divine right as figurehead as well.

“But it’s no promise,” says Dorian.

There’s another crack at politics, started by Impa: Link has had the most recent contact with all of the villages, cities, and towns. Utilizing him to announce the revival of the Hylian throne—

“I’ve never even heard the boy speak!” shouts Oldin.

There are a few too many nodding of heads. Even Link only raises an eyebrow at the ruckus.

“The castle is safe now, and clear,” Impa tries again. “Re-establishing order should begin there. A figurehead must be reformed, and as we have done for thousands of years, we Shieka shall be the castle’s guardsmen and —”

“Impa,” Dorian cuts in, his voice half ravaged from the hours of long debate. “Look at us. The entire village had fit in this room. All of our young men have gone off throughout Hyrule, or maybe, even, traveled twice as far. Even more — the majority of them, as you know! — have promised their loyalty to the Yiga clan.”

“A fine point. Let us reach out, then, to the stables around Hyrule. I am sure the young men there would be —”

“Forgive me, all, but I have decided what will be done.”

And the voice is Zelda’s. Her hours of silence and contemplation (always all too familiar) finally broken. Even Link startles at the sound of her voice, his shoulders jerking at the new lilt in the room.

And the first hush in the night follows. Bleary eyes all to her. They’re hungry-looking, anxious and waiting.

She can only disappoint them.

“I do not know my kingdom as it is now. What I have seen, has been relayed to me in dreams. You are my most cherished informants, and shall ever remain so. Nevertheless, I am naive.”

There’s a power in her voice that Link enjoys —soft, but sure; it’s direct and formal. She seems like a queen, almost. She seems like—

“And that is not enough…”

She seems like,  _almost_ like, that memory that half-formed when he stood in her study. It was ruined and overgrown, 100 years out of use, but he could remember,  _almost_ , her speaking beside him, close enough, shoulder-to-shoulder, and her voice, he thinks, must have sounded the same as now, when she recited decrees and histories and biologies and all things he never knew or learned because all he knew was how to pivot when a sword was slung his way, or how to fight dirty (kick, if possible, strangle, if necessary), or where in the gut to piece…

“I will not re-claim my throne at this time.”

“Zelda!” and the cry is Impa’s, and it’s enough of a force to bring her to her feet.

But, the argument against it dies in her throat. 

 

\-----

 

By a certain hour in the twilight, the frogs begin croaking; louder and louder than they had been before. She likes it, that melodic break in the silence — the reminder of life that exists beyond the great room’s walls. The house is all too stifling now. Warm, still, from the bodies that had paced its floorboards some hours ago.

They’re alone, finally. And she’s tired. No. Exhausted, and her futon is warm, and her limbs are half-numb from the feeling. Almost all of Kakariko must be asleep, but her mind is buzzing, rotating through memories and prospects. Her heart is racing. She shifts again, from one side to another; from one fitful thought to the next.

It’s only Link’s voice that breaks the cycle. Deep and quiet. A noise that doesn’t startle her. He had been awake alongside her (their futons only some few feet of distance); she had known it without confirmation. It was an odd, 7th sense that seemed to be but instinct.

And he asks, “Did you eat anything today?”

And her thoughts go from dead soldiers to the imagery of food, and her stomach curls at the rapid switch. The watery soup she had managed to swallow the night prior; the mountains of rice cakes, the vats of creamy stews, the stir-fried meats and roasted pumpkins, all set out and glistening in oil. All of the village had stuffed themselves full. She denied every bite.

“No.”

There’s a rustling in the darkness, and it takes her a moment to notice Link’s figure moving quietly in the room. Their fresh clothes are folded neatly in the corner; Link’s blue tunic, his trousers, his boots, a coat. He sleeps in the old shirt Purah had left in the Shrine of Resurrection, and Zelda can hear the rustling of fabric; the coat stretching across his shoulders. His thinner trousers being exchanged for thicker.

When she hears him sliding on his boots, Zelda finally whispers:

“Where are you going?”

“To cook.”

“Where?”

Her eyes adjust in the darkness, she can make out the silhouette of him in the paling indigo. He points in a vague direction and opens the front door, softly.

The cold air that floats in feels miraculous. She’s up without even thinking, the sleeping robe Impa had gifted her quickly becoming a bottom layer to her thicker coat (still plush and warm, to her surprise, despite its old age). Her boots slip on without hitch, and she’s outside. The door clicking quietly behind her, the old wood of the stairs creaking with her footfalls. Link’s ahead of her by a few steps, elbow deep in his rucksack (what sort of magic has blessed that bag? she wonders). They pass Cado at the guard post, too drunk to remain awake. They round the corner, past statues, the stream, and then there’s the outdoor cooking area; the stone pot a dark omen in her vision.

Link goes to work without much fuss. He lights the fire with flint and the scrape of a blade, and waits for the pot to heat.

The frogs are louder now. Birds awaken with their song. Dancing in the more overgrown areas of the village are fireflies. Zelda watches them from the wooden table she settles on. She rests her chin in her open palm. The world is a dark blue haze of growing shadows. Over the sizzle of Link’s cooking, she hears him humming. Her eyes close. She dips forward, arms folding to rest her head.

She’s not sure how long she slept, exactly. Ten minutes? Fifteen? The world is not particularly much brighter when she awakes to the sweet smell of food, now but an inch away from her face. Link is across from her, watching the fireflies with a lazy expression. When he hears her groan, his eyes tilt her way.

And she looks to the cake, all warm, and spongy-looking. The heat rises off of it; the fruits lay sweetly in its honeyed batter. Fruit cake. She’d ask her father constantly for it. At her most desperate hours, she would sneak to the kitchen, on mornings especially, when the cooks and their boys were readying the day’s meal.

And, “Please,” she would say. She’d clasp her hands because she knew the biggest chef — the one who would knead dough with his reddened fists and throw it against his workstation with a burly ‘ _smack_ ’ — found ‘no’ impossible when she looked as if she was praying. “I need it this morning. Please.”

And here it was.

She’s a bit awestruck at first. And, a tad bit embarrassed. Her cheeks flush. “Did you know this was my favorite?”

Link nods. He reaches to his hip, pulling the Shieka Slate from its holster. He’s quick with it; fingers agile from muscle memory on the thing, and he shows to her a picture he had taken: an open book. A recipe book, by closer inspection, and she can see the frayed, table linen in the background, edged with the royal crest. And the writing in the book is so laughably obvious, with words like her name and “Favorite” and the recipe written in yellowed ink.

“Oh,” she’s only able to squeak, her eyebrows raising. Her throat feels tight.

The frogs keep croaking. She stares at the cake. And when the flush in her face dies down, she glances at Link.

He looks bored, almost. Eyes half-lidded, eyebrows raised. His mouth covered by his open palm, as he rests his chin against it. He waits.

So she speaks. “Thank you. You didn’t need to cook for me, but…”

But what? Had she not surmised he would brew up something when she dashed out the door behind him? She’s half a failure, but not naive. Her heart is beating in her ears. The sounds of the village become dull by the drumming.

And he waits.

There’s a scar that’ll form at the top of his left cheek, etched when the tip of Ganon’s weapon had scraped him in a counter move. He had rolled, she remembered, and some blood vessel there must have been nicked because it bled, bled, bled, and matted the blonde hair that brushed against it, slipped down the side of his face, and she was sure he could taste the sting of it on his tongue when he yelled.

And that cut alone — suffered for her sake — and all the cuts and bruises that still marred his body, was worth more than this damned fruit cake. And yet, at the sight of such a stupid, little thing, she still felt like sobbing.

Instead, into the brightening morning, she whispers: “I’m so sorry.”

It’s lupine, almost, the way he looks at her. All big, curious eyes, and sharp features. He says nothing. Still waits.

And Zelda gives. “I’m not brave,” she says into the cold, and the words are there, filling her mouth, breaking into the air like a wildfire. “I’m not sure enough, and so I can’t be courageous. And you’ve done all of…  _this_.” And she throws out an arm, motioning to both everything and nothing. “And I can’t even give you a reward or resolution. I should restore the kingdom. And I will. I need to, but not now. Impa was so disappointed. And everyone else here and… and I know I should. I need to. Or else, this is all for nothing, right?” She could cry. She could cry. She pinches the skin between her thumb and palm. “But, I know nothing. I feel like I’ve learned nothing. I can recite prayers. I can succeed in something when it’s already too late but… but it’s not too late now, right? I have time, don’t I? Goddess. How selfish. I’m so sorry.”

“I think you’re smart.”

And this time, his voice shakes her. And she  _knows_ — she can feel it, the stiffness in her shoulders softening, her jaw unclenching, her chest losing the tightness it had held for her entire existence — and she knows, for the first time, what simple relief feels like. When she blinks, her eyes sting. Her vision becomes blurry and wet.

She manages to choke out, “You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t mind,” he says. “But will you eat?”

“I’ll eat.” She pulls in a shaky breath. “What will we do, Link?”

He shrugs.

“Will you stay with me?”

Finally, his expression jerks — dismayed by the audacity of the question. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Zelda, of course.”

And she goes quiet.

And, as if what he said hadn’t carried the entire weight of her heart in it, he casually pushes the cake closer to her.

“Maybe we can go to Hateno,” he muses. “There were some errands I had promised to do, but I just haven’t done them yet.” He furrows his brow in thought. “I need ten crickets.”

It’s hilarious, almost, and distracting enough to swallow a bite of cake without reeling. “Why?”

He shakes his head and sighs.

“There’s Tarry Town too,” he continues. His head is resting, again, in the palm of his hand. His eyes close as he speaks. His knee bounces from under the table; he’s anxious to talk, and Zelda knows it.

But it sounds melodic, his voice. There’s that tinge of accent, carried down from the old Hyrulean middle class, and now half-forgotten by their kin. His ‘r’s unfurl, softly, when he speaks them. She wonders how much they’ll stick out in the wide, open world.

“I haven’t seen much of the Gerudo Highlands,” he adds. “Maybe you’ll like to see that.”

“I would. Also, Gerudo town as well, if you don’t mind.”

Eyes still closed, knee still bouncing, he smirks.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Zelda ventures, “If we feel well enough…” And she can’t push the word ‘ _leave_ ’ through her teeth.

But Link does. “We’ll leave.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you dearly for taking the time to read this. I'm unsure how far or deep I'll take this story, but I hope you'll join me on the ride. Comments and kudos are always, always appreciated, as they let me know if I'm giving you all what you like. :)
> 
> Keep up with me on my Tumblr, if you have one. (TempleMap is my username on there as well). I'll be posting story updates there if I run into a snag, or post a new chapter.
> 
> Ciao!


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't sure, really, where the name Epona came from; it just came to mind, to cut to the chase.   

"She seems like an Epona," says Zelda, and she means it. 

The wind has picked up on the road between Kakariko and Hateno. It pushes their hair back and forth, across their faces, across their shoulders. The grassy fields, set out before them, sway alongside. The jingle of forest sprites ringing like chimes in the wind. 

They're seated upon Epona. Zelda at the reigns, Link wedged behind her on the saddle. Confident with balance, he rests one hand on his thigh, the other behind him, on Epona's left hip. 

"I haven't forgotten much," says Zelda. "Maybe once you learn how to ride, you never forget it."

Link nods, because it's true. He may no longer remember the face of his mother, or on what day his birthday lands, but, Goddesses, he never struggled with taming a horse. 

"I have a white horse," he says. 

"Do you?" And Zelda thinks of Lila. Her purple reigns and pale mane. Morning in the stable, an apple in the flat palm of Zelda's own hand. Lila's velvety nose. Her eyes. 

"I named it Daphnes." 

"Daphnes?" And she scrunches her nose. 

"I don't know why." 

"There was an old king of Hyrule named Daphnes," says Zelda. 

"Hm."

"Your battalion as well, when you were in training." She glances behind her. "We named our battalions after kings, and your's was Daphnes."

There's a pause. Then:

"Do you remember that? When you were in training?"

Link tries, but all he can conjure is a product of imagination: barracks, weapons, armor. When he had assailed the castle, he had known, somehow, each room by name -- Zelda's study, the knight's training hall... But there, it recedes. In that training space where he must have spent his time back then, now he knows only a room of rotting wood and dusty stones. 

He says gently, "I don't."

Guardians, aged and hollow -- some overgrown with moss and still wet with dew -- are rooted like trees across the expanse of the field. The mood quiets. Link feels Zelda readjust in her seat.

"They were never evil," she mutters. But he can feel her body stiffen. Her eyes are to them, on each curve of their design, art pieces, almost, in their making. "They're brilliant machines," she offers. "Just capable of possession."

(They both know what memory lies at the far side of the field. It's palpable still -- Zelda can recall it, how much heavier Link feels when his body is a breath away from dying. The sting on the back of her hand. How when magic flows through you, it begins as a warmth at the base of the neck, then radiating like blue fire heat through every nerve of your body). 

And they continue on. 

There are merchants on the road, right under the arch of Fort Hateno. And there's a buzzing among them. They coagulate on the walk-way, a busy bulk of them, talking and motioning energetically among themselves. 

And as Zelda draws Epona closer, a moment away from weaving the horse around the group, a wide beast of a hand rises from the heap. A deep voice follows: "Ah! Link!"

And Zelda halts (so sudden a motion that Link swings forward in his seat, bumping his chin against the back of her skull; both wince).

He's a handsome man, this merchant. Tall and wide-shouldered with a straight set of teeth as he grins. "Look at you!" he says with great gusto. "You look fresh out of a monster's cave." He's by their side, his hand resting against Epona's brown neck. "Looking a bit black and blue there, friend. Is this the reason you're not at the reigns? First time I've ever seen you take the back," and then, with a motion to Zelda, "And yes, hello. A pleasure to meet you. What is the name of such a lovely lady?"

"Zelda," she says, and her heart thumps faster at the confession. 

"Ah, named after the princess. Well, I'm sure your beauty is comparable." 

"I'm the reincarnation of her," says a girl. She's got a round face, dark hair. Her shoes look worn from walking. There's a sunburn on the tip of her nose. "I made it to Mount Lanayru a week ago. It really shook me. I think that means something." 

"It was the cold that shook you," says the handsome merchant.

"Did you see the dragon?" asks Link.

The girl's brows pinch in response. "Dragon?"

"Ignore her. She's a lunatic," says the merchant. "Don't bait her with anything even more fantastical. Now listen, the road up ahead has never been more easy. You remember those Bokoblins that used to stalk around and give us all a headache? Gone. Garill's thinkin' they've gone deeper into the woods, but I only just saw them a day before yesterday, right? Can a whole pack of them travel that fast? Doesn't matter. We're all just in a good craze about it." 

"Less of a job for you to do now," says the girl to Link. "I'm not a lunatic, by the way," she adds, jamming an elbow into the merchant's ribs. "I just feel a real connection to the princess."

She looks to Zelda. "I like your name."

"Thank you." The grip on her reigns tighten. 

"I'll see you in Hateno?" asks the handsome merchant, giving Epona a last little pat. 

Link nods, and they carry on again.  

\--

"Agus and Celessa," says Link when they've gained distance. "The rest were Garill, Toma, Spinch..." he squints his eyes, "And Letty, I think." 

Zelda nods. "They seem to know you quite well." 

"Not quite well, but enough." He stretches his shoulders and says very casually, "Did you enjoy meeting your reincarnation?"

Zelda looks back at him, and its only by the ease in his brows and the smirk tugging on his lips, that she realizes he's being sarcastic. 

His dry wit is new. 

"I'm surprised she seemed so fascinated with... what I did, back then." She furrows her brows. Thinks of her heart racing when she was asked her name.

"I felt like I was lying," she says. "Not about my name. Well, I think I should say instead: I felt like I was hiding." There's a bend in the road ahead. The trees, once dense, now becoming  sparser. "You must have run into that," Zelda continues. "When people have talked about the 'champion' and 'hero,' and you're standing right in front of them." 

"Sure." 

"What do you say?" Then she adds, "If anything." 

"If they talk about the Master Sword, I show it to them." 

She laughs. But her stomach curls into a knot. "Do they believe you?"

"No."  

"Link--" and she can feel the weight already, of the scenario of hiding and falsehood, "Do you ever tell them the truth about everything? About who you are?"

"I don't bother." 

"Why?"

He shrugs and she can feel it behind her, the rise and fall of his shoulders; they're so packed together on Epona. 

"It doesn't bother you?"

Link thinks for a moment, and the silence feels heavy. If she had the courage to look back, she knew she would see him, eyebrows knotted in thought, lips set straight.

Finally he offers, "Not really. It just doesn't feel much like it's me." 

\-----

She had seen Hateno first with her parents. "Strong crops of the good Hylian soil," her father had called them. They were a simple people, the villagers. Farmers and ranchers. Loyal to the monarchy and their goddesses. 

She was young at the time -- five, perhaps? -- so her memory is in fragments: the etched, gold-painted triforces on the royal carriage. The deep wrinkles, carved from the sun, on the farmers' faces. Her mother accepting a basket of barley. Bits of her father's speech in the village square:

_"Businessmen and soldiers, townsfolk and royalty! All would cease to be without the bounty you grow."_

And now, where all else in Hyrule had crumbled under the Calamity's weight, Hateno had sustained. 

She can see the chimney smoke above the grove of trees. Sunlight seeps in through the canopy gaps, placing stamps of gold on tree roots and soil. And it's a lullaby, almost, the sound of Epona's hooves on the dirt. The sway. The warmth on her back from Link seated behind her. 

"We should be in Hateno soon," he says, and he readjusts in the saddle to pull his rucksack into his lap. Paya had prepared a substantial little lunch for their trip -- riceballs stuffed with smoked fish and raw vegetables; the pyramidal shape of them folded perfectly in her warm palms. 

Link reaches around Zelda, his arm outstretching, to hold one out to her. 

"Paya is very thoughtful," she says when forcing a bite. She doesn't feel all normal yet, but she's progressing. "She looks so much like how Impa did. She's kind and patient as well, like her." 

"But shy," adds Link between mouthfuls.

"With you especially," chides Zelda. "It was sweet how much she stammered, telling you goodbye and everything. It's a bit obvious how she feels, don't you think?" 

Link's face warms, and Zelda's able to catch the blush when she glances back.

"But," she continues, her voice losing its bounce, "It was hard to say goodbye to Impa. She's so dear to me, and I know we're dear to her, so to leave this morning..."

"What did she say to you? Before we left?" 

Zelda frowns. "'All of Hyrule's history is cyclical.'" She knows this. The legend of the Great Sea. The histories of the Sealing War. Death and rebirth was there, always, behind every facet of their history. "She meant to comfort me, but we aren't the same people as those previous generations. Our ancestors--if they were indeed ever more than legends--had a fairer chance than we've ever been given."

And then the dense trees clear and they're there, in Hateno. 

\-----

"So," says the carpenter/architect/luminary, , "You found yourself a wife." 

They're at the end of the little bridge, in the far-tucked corner of Hateno Village. It's a good spot; far from the busy central street and at the foot of a mountain. A fresh-water stream runs around and below the old house. There's a small horse stable. A little pond. 

It's striking, really, to think its Link's. 

There's another man seated beside the carpenter. He's more subdued looking, clean-cut hair, an easy-going smile. "Congratulations," he says, "You didn't have a wedding?"

Link's too busy unsaddling Epona (Zelda watches him wince, once, from the work; bruises never heal overnight). As they pass, he gives the wave of a hand -- his only acknowledgement. 

Something about it -- maybe her guilt in this daunting future of half-truths ahead -- makes Zelda pop out, "We're not married." 

"Ah," says the carpenter. His voice is sweet; she's sure he sings well. "My mistake, then. Siblings?"

And she wishes Link would say something, but he's preoccupied, from baggage, to letting Epona loose, and then to that damn key and the difficult door lock. 

So she says, "No. Friends." 

The carpenter winks. "Very good." 

It pushes a blush to Zelda's cheeks. And then, when the door opens with a squeal, the mute finally finds words for their outdoor companions:

"Have you had dinner?" 

\--

He makes extra, as usual, and Bolson and Karson are all good and happy. With a girl now in the vicinity, and still just a month's distance from Hudson's wedding, they're on the subject of wives and women. 

"Maybe I'll propose. I'm a little bit afraid to. I wanted to have a house first and two beds to my name. But maybe this'll finally kick me into getting those things, right? I can't keep her waiting forever," says Karson. 

It's starting to get darker now, and a little cloudy over the rising moon. A faint light illuminates the house's windows -- Zelda lighting the candles in their lanterns. 

Link continues wordlessly cooking, four plates at the ready near his feet. 

"It's su-uch a bother," Bolson moans. He gives a great sigh and lolls his head back. "It's my time too. I'm getting older. But, I can't just appear with a pretty girl out of thin air." He sighs again and knocks Link on the shoulder, "Like this one here just did." 

(It brings to mind a memory: Link on his own in the late-night hours, knowing he can reach Purah's by sunrise if he keeps at his pace. And he passes the little river behind the dye shop. And it's babbling as it's edged along by the wind, and two shadows are at the tiny dock there, and they've got their arms around each other, all close and sweet. They're men by their stature, by their silhouettes and all. And he can't see the faces of either of them, but he's heard the tone of Bolson's laughter enough to know he was one of the two. 

Not that it matters, nor does he care, but he does draw up an eyebrow when Bolson mentions women). 

"Don't look confused," chides Bolson, misreading the reaction. "Of course we're going to talk about that girl you just brought back." 

"Also, wow, man," adds Karson, "I've seen you all--" and he waves his hand, actually quite unsure how to express it. "But this... You're looking rough." 

Link shrugs. 

"Who's the girl? She throwing fists at you?

"Boss, not funny." 

"Hey. Link." 

"Her name's Zelda," says Link, quite casually. He adds a pinch of salt to the pot and eyes the steak as it grows darker. 

Maybe some added ginger next time would be nice? 

"But really," Karson mutters, "You look horrible, man. Are you okay?" 

"Is she just visiting for supper?" intrudes Bolson. 

"No." Link purses his lips, and then: "Actually. Would you make a second bed? I can pay you now." 

"So she's staying!"

"Wow," groans Karson. "A house. Two beds. A little lady. A horse. Did you fight with a demon to get all of this?"

Bolson's grinning, all fox-like. "Ah, a pity." He laughs and leans over to pinch the tip of Link's ear. "Looks like you're off the market now, even if you're being wicked and not marrying the girl first." 

Link could argue, but it's a hassle. The steaks are done and he's anxious to get inside. He hands a plate to Karson, and another to Bolson. He says, "That bed--"

"We'll build it for you tomorrow. Now go to your girl." 

\--

It's odd, all the light touches and the decoration and the care. A well-prepped desk near the bed. Matching dishware. Framed paintings on the wall. Rugs and silverware and books. 

There's a thick coat of dust on everything. Zelda slides her finger against the the spine of a book,  _What Makes it ART-itecture_. 

Clearly, the decoration is not Link's. 

There's not much to unpack. Impa had prepared a small bundle of items -- her sleeping gown, her field outfit, a day-dress, boots and socks and the like. Then, an extra pack of random convinces: two bed rolls, herbs, a kettle to make tea...

Her crown and royal attire was packed away in Kakariko. The extra weight discarded. "It will be here," Impa had said. "Until you are ready." 

And then there was that guilt, again, feeling like a weight in her sternum. 

She can hear Link, eventually. The door squeaking on its hinges and the shuffling of two plates being set on the table. Then the stairs creak from beneath his steps and he's there, at the top of the loft with her. 

"Who did you buy this house from?"

"Bolson sold it to me," admits Link. "No one had lived in it for 100 years." 

"Sort of like how we were. Just, vessels, maybe." She tries a smile. "Did you dream at all while you were asleep for so long?"

Link shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I don't think so."

"Were you frightened at all when you woke up?"

"I heard your voice." He shifts on his feet. "It was familiar so I wasn't, really."  

And it's enough to give her some comfort. She says, wholeheartedly, "I'm glad." 

They're halfway down the stairs when Link adds, "No, actually, I think I dreamed of the moon falling." 

\--

Only the poor and desperate share beds. A fool on his last rupee, forced to share the space and cost with any other rouge soul. A prostitute and their never-permanent patron. Destitute families crammed in a single cot, shoulder-to-shoulder, half-overlapping, all rancid breath and sweaty sheets and tangles of hair and limbs.

There's a pride in the Hylian bed. The wealthy purchased extra under the guise of hospitality (there was cliche rhyme, Zelda remembered: "A wealthy bed you'll never know," it began, and it's ending: "as in the end it's just for show"). A good man bought two when he purchased a home, three or four if he was immediately ready for children. 

Link had one bed, and it was nothing to turn a nose up to. Where others could scoff at the predicament, Zelda was no stickler for propriety, and appealing to "poor standards" was not a worthy concern. 

Not anymore, at least. 

Instead, she changes in the far corner of the loft-space while Link cleans on the bottom floor. She can hear the splashing of water from a bucket, the squeak of a rag against glass, the stacking of dishes. 

It's a homey feeling, and one that's oddly peaceful after the onslaught of horrors their lifetime had been. 

When she's in her sleeping gown, she joins him, taking over the last of the chores despite his protests. She re-sets the table and puts a broom to the floor, the dust floating up like thick clouds. 

"I'll open the windows," says Link, and in comes the wind. The trees rustle in the dark night sky. 

It's not late, but they're exhausted still. Zelda tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and yawns. Link goes to the small pile of items Zelda had unpacked and rolls out the futon on the newly-cleaned floor. 

"You can have my bed upstairs," he says. "It's yours." 

"Ah," she breathes. "No, it's fine."

His nose wrinkles. He shakes his head at the audacity of the idea and, to make the point all the more clear, sets his sleeping attire at the end of the futon.

Memories or not, Zelda figures, at least this starting predicament hasn't changed. 

"I don't need the better sleeping arrangement." 

"Please have it." 

"You're being chivalrous, and it is appreciated, but, truly, I'm certain." 

"You have higher concern for me than you should. Please take the bed." 

"Link." 

And out of his lips slip, "Princess." 

And it's verbatim, the words. And she's back in the memory, a century ago, in the deep desert of Gerudo Valley. It had been different then -- a bed hadn't been the subject matter, but the single bedroll that Link had packed. Another difference: Zelda's voice finally rising across the dunes,  _"Are you crazy? You can't sleep on your feet outside the tent anymore!"_

Different setting, different terms, same voices, same souls. One hundred years later. 

And something in Link must have clicked as well. Some thread of deja vu because he's suddenly wide-eyed and quiet for a moment before speaking. 

"I'm sorry. You asked me not to say 'princess.'" he admits, "I said it without thinking."

"Muscle memory," says Zelda. 

Link sighs. Runs a hand across his face. "Zelda," he says, "If I know you're sleeping down here, I'll never be able to sleep." 

She gives in with a sigh.

\-----

It goes like this: 

There is no distraction in silence and darkness. The decibels of a quiet noise swell. The images behind the eyelids glow. 

Then there is a thought, and it resounds, stuck in reverberation against the curve of the skull. 

And Zelda hates it, that she had survived two nights of difficult, but _possible_ sleep, to only dive into madness on the third. 

It's too dark, the night. The wind has died down. Her head is screaming in a repetitive cycle of the grotesque (images, questions, wonders, worries, memories; she can't shake it, she can't shake it, from one to the next, she can't shake it). 

And it's in this dark loneliness she moves, legs sliding off of the bed, bare feet touching the wooden floor. She descends the stairs, she squints in the darkness, walks slowly, quietly, feeling for the outline of the futon she knows is there.

And she finds it. And he's awake, she knows it, with the same sort of restlessness that's been throwing her into a panic.

"I'm sorry," she says, leaning down onto her knees. She slips under the sheets, and the space is limited, but it's something familiar and something safe in this dreadful night. 

Only then do they both find sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, ever notice how in Zelda games no one's ever sharing a bed? And some NPC's have, like, too many beds? (Insert my ridiculous reasoning here that has nothing to do with Nintendo's actual reasoning).
> 
> Seriously, so many thank you's to everyone who commented; ya'll have no idea how freaking happy that makes me, and how it just drives me to wanna get this out sooner. And for the kudos and bookmakrs, and even just any of you who have been reading this, thank you. <3 
> 
> Gimme your thoughts and stick around! More coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Eventually, they begin to ask her name.

“Zelda."

“Like that princess,” say most.

“Yes,” says Zelda, always.

They never seem to care much. Instead, they pack away their payment and fill Zelda’s hands with eggs, or arrows, or butter, or vegetables. A new cloak because Link ripped his on a stray Bokoblin's blade. At the most, a mention: “Too bad what happened to her. That princess, you know. Makes for exciting history, though.”

Only one in Hateno had cradled her chin in thought. “Ah,” she had said. “Didn’t my mother tell me: only the royal family can bear the name Zelda? Be lucky that royalty is gone, then.”

(The courage to retort never festered on Zelda’s tongue.)

Hateno makes her anxious. In the century since the calamity, it has thrived beyond measure. Crops grow, the population blooms (more marriages, more children, more houses built with every new year). Animals produce. Stomachs grow full and fat and happy. Their greatest assault: the roads around them (now far safer since the Calamity’s fall). Their second greatest assault: which side to butter their roasted bread.

Zelda had told Link, “They’ve done fine without a monarchy.”

And Link, often honest to a fault, only nodded.

By the end of spring, they start to ask more.

“Where do you live, Zelda?”

The temperature is better now. The chill at last waning. The stilled air gives way to short-lived breezes that brush the trees and their branches most often toward the east. She can hear it outside the general store, the leaves rustling in this little wind. She adjusts the grocery basket on her hip — made of coiled wicker.

“Here,” she says to the shopkeeper’s wife. “In Hateno.”

But this wife knows better, and so much more. She crosses her arms and nods her head. Her husband is sick on this day, caught upstairs in bed with a cold. She leans against the long, wooden counter.

“Where in Hateno?” she asks. “I’ve seen you go every which way! The other ladies have too. You go up the mountain a lot. Towards that... Oh, what is it, again? A laboratory? Is there even anything up there anymore? Doesn’t matter. And then Nikki told me she’s seen you with Link a lot, and you seem to come from that way in the morning. Are you family of his?”

She’s a bit bitter, this woman. Half leaning over the counter with her arm at an angle. Lips all downward. Zelda watches her brow arch when she says, “ _Family_.” 

(There had been some whispers within the store, after the door had been locked for the night, and the candles set alight. "That Link's a good one," said a wife to her husband. "A bit strange and aloof, but he's got a house, you know. I hear he's loaded. He'd be a good husband for our Ivee.")

But now, suddenly, there was a girl living with him.

“I’m not family,” says Zelda. She’s not sure, really, how to explain anything further than that. Karson and Bolson had at least kept their inquiries to a minimum after the initial day.

But she’s clearly said something wrong. The woman reels. Her jaw drops. “You’re not family and you  _live_ with him? Do you mean you’re married?”

The wicker basket Zelda holds feels heavier. The calm breeze outside has stopped. The shop feels stuffy.

“We’re not married,” she says. "We're traveling companions." 

"I see," says the woman, her opinion well heard in the tone. 

\--

 

By evening, Zelda finds her solace in machinery. Her arms coated to the elbow in grease. Tearing cranks and springs from the gut of the long-dead Guardian atop Purah’s laboratory. The smell of dinner, wafting from the hot pot Link cooks with, below.

“You’re upset today,” says Purah. She’s small enough to sit atop the Guardian’s head with ample room around her. Her ever present energy (the younger form suits her, both Zelda and Link had agreed) making her legs kick back and forth in the air. Her heels  _tud tud tudding_  against the half-hollow machinery.

Zelda sighs and tries to relax the brows she had knitted tight on her face. “I am. A bit,” she offers, deflating from her rigid posture. “I’m doing something wrong, I think.”

“Let me see--”

“In the village.”

“Oh,” Purah shrugs. “That’s easy to do.”

They can hear Symin talking below, his voice carrying up with the wind: “—so, those three sunshrooms...”

“Don’t worry about the people in the village,” says Purah. “They’re simple. Maybe their village is the most — I don’t know, rich? — right now, but that’s only because Hyrule town hasn’t been built back up yet. They’re just farmers.”

"Ah, but," counters Zelda with a huff. There's another tug at some springs deep in the machine. Her voice echoes in the hollow as she says, "They're all I have right now." 

“Meh,” says Purah. Another kick against the Guardian, this time with a bit more force. "Your kingdom is more than just Hateno Village." 

The scent of smoke -- the cooking fire below being extinguished--is enough of a call for dinner. Zelda wipes her arms against the old rag Purah had brought up. She’ll need to bathe later, she realizes with a frown, to clean the black off completely.

 

She eats dirty, the soup spoon growing a tint of grey as she holds it from the stubborn grease. The stew is good. It always is when Link cooks.

“And another thing,” Purah carries on. She points her spoon at Symin. “When you throw my things off this table—”

“The table we need to eat on," counters Symin in monotone.

“Do better than just—! Well—! Just sorting them away. At least sort them away as I do.”

Link watches, a bit transfixed, at this friendly bickering. There’s something in the mundane he seems to like. Perhaps he had been without it for so long that simple squabbles and routines always seem extraordinary to him. Perhaps, Zelda figures, this is why he likes to cook. 

“Anyway,” says Purah with a huff. “Linky, another ladle of soup if you don’t mind?” Her short arms try to hand her bowl off to him. Link stands, leaning across the table to close the sizable gap, and takes the bowl from her small hands.

As he leaves through the front door, Zelda looks between Purah and Symin. She speaks before she thinks: “Has anyone in Hateno… Have they ever commented about you? About you sharing a house together?”

“I don't care,” says Purah crossly. She folds her arms. “I make a point to not showcase myself to them. As much as they want to see me, those little brats. Right outside my house; as if I don’t see them—  _Oh_ , Linky thank you.”

She takes the bowl handed to her. Then, “Why?”

"I was asked about it." 

"About Symin and I?"

"Link and I -- why we share a house." 

Link says nothing. He takes a large spoonful of stew. All easygoing, as is his way. 

"Of course they'd ask," Purah chides. "What have they to do but wonder and talk? They're like a flock of cuccos with all their clucking." 

"So they've asked you about it as well?"

"Hm? Ah, maybe once a decade or two ago. Just stay out of their eyesight. Life becomes much easier then." 

"I've been asked," says Symin. "I made it clear that we are colleagues and researches. Long ago, before--" he motions toward Purah, indicates with his hands her shorter stature, "Some of the townsfolk used to deliver our groceries. I think they noticed our different bedrooms as well."

Zelda thinks of their second bed frame, gathering dust beneath the staircase. 

And Link watches her eyes, how her lashes dip against her cheeks as she thinks.

He remains silent. 

 

\----

It’s frustrating, like a word on the tip of the tongue. Always there, but half formed, and never more than deja vu.

It’s beginning to nag at him, his amnesia. He works in assumptions and guesses, over works and over estimates in order to make up for the unknown.

“It’s alright,” says Zelda. She’s standing behind him. The fire is warm in his face, and he’s crouched down below the soaking tub, tending to the growing flame that warms it from below. “I don’t need you to prepare my bath for me.”

But he does anyway; he had already scrubbed down the bathhouse. Already hauled in the water. It’s not so much more to just stoke the fire.

This is what he should be doing anyway, he guesses; what other good is a knight without enemies?

Link shakes his head and he hears her shift the weight on her feet. She crouches beside him and looks into the fire. Her eyes glow with the bright orange of the frame. Her pale hair looks warm to the touch. 

And again, that deja vu. 

"I appreciate all that you do for me," she whispers. "But I feel guilty from it often. I take more from you than I give." 

Not true, he thinks. 

She sighs and curls her arms around her bent knees. "It's been strange to be so purposeless, hasn't it? For both of us." 

A campfire. It feels like a campfire here, almost. How she crouches beside him, almost shoulder to shoulder. He's warm all over. There were so many other nights like this, he's sure, in the fields and forests when their campfire would grow so large, their hair would smell of smoke and ash...

"But," she continues, "Please, don't try to find purpose in servant-hood. You are not that; you have never been that."

The fire cracks and hisses. Steam gathers from the soaking tub above. Zelda looks to him. The air feels wet and hot on her tongue. 

"You're more than this to me. More than making my baths or food, or tending to all of the chores, or putting up with me because I can't sleep alone."

He watches the fire. All words stuck in his chest. 

Until finally: "I'm not sure what to do, then." 

Zelda presses her lips together. "Protect us," she responds after a moment of thought. "Don't give up on me. If you do those, you've given me happiness."

Link nods.

"And I hope," she sighs with a smile, "That's easier than fighting Ganon."

"It is."

"We'll see. I haven't much faith in myself at the moment. I'm not making the best impression in Hateno." 

He shakes his head. "You've done nothing wrong." 

It's a small, sad smile she gives before she stands and offers a hand to help pull Link up. "It feels like the castle, sometimes," she says upon rising. "How people always used to whisper. I always felt so small and cornered, like I couldn't breathe without notice. But, I'm learning: that's how life is, isn't it? In royal corridors or not." 

Something from memory pulls at him. Half-second flashes: a circle of onlookers; the weight of a sword, the hilt too large for his small hands as a child; the echo of reprimands. 

So he nods again, assuming he must understand. There is so much potential to. He must. 

Zelda sighs, "I should bathe now." She looks at her grease-stained fingers. There are black smudges on wherever she had rested her hands: the side of her face, the back of her neck, now on Link's left hand as she had hauled him up. 

He's quick to leave the bathhouse, giving her the space and the privacy he's never truly sure how to measure. 

\----

Some things are familiar.

She soaks amoranth in her bath water, coating the water's top layer like a painting's veneer. And it sticks to her, that herby, clean scent. It's so familiar a smell -- and one that is so specific to her -- that Link needs no singular memory to recognize it. When he awakes to the morning light, there's her hair, always, spilled over his shoulder, the long, white strands there, right in his eyesight, and it's sweet like amoranth.

And, this, he can remember. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, but thank you so much for sticking around, despite my hectic schedule! You'll find this chapter a bit shorter than the last, but have no worries: I'm halfway done with the next, and it will be making up for that. <3 
> 
> Alright, and my god, the kind comments I got, and all the support and kudos!!! Wow! Just, thank you SO MUCH! Those really gave me the strength to power through so I could get this out ASAP. You guys really, truly are the best part of my day (isn't that weird how much feedback affects a person? Hah!). 
> 
> Until next time!


	4. Chapter 4

Links stands behind her, hands at his hips. Leaning forward. Eyes squinting as he watches her cook. 

"It's the same recipe," says Zelda, stirring the mixture. It's a simple concoction -- bokoblin horns and stamina mushrooms. Their quantities and quality measured precisely.

"Fire is a magic all in itself," she muses. "How it brings out the dark magic in monster parts, and whatever essence is in nature." 

It's a bit dusty, the air, as it sometimes is in the Faron Highlands. The hooves of horses kick up the dirt in their wooden pens. A stable hand sneezes. A white goat bleats. From in and out of the stable yurt go wanderers and merchants. The summer bright and warm above them. 

The consistency of elixirs are meant to be like mucus. Viscous, but more-so runny if tilted upside down. It should stick to the spatula when stirred, and all parts should be cooked down until smooth. It's bitter, the taste. Oily to the touch. 

"Noble women in the castle--" starts Zelda. She uncorks a bottle and readies her ladle. "--used to dab warming elixirs onto their cheeks. I think to try and look like they're bashful and young, or whatnot."

Link mindlessly nods; watches only the flow of the brew. Distracted, obviously. Zelda clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

"Am I cooking down something wrong?" she asks, handing the bottled mix to him. 

"No." 

She cocks an eyebrow. 

He scrunches his nose. With his free hand, he digs in his rucksack, pulls out a similar bottle. Same color. Same quantity.

"Same elixir," he says, holding the two side-by-side. "But, this one I made." 

"Astute," Zelda nods. 

"But their effects are different. Every elixir you've made has been different from mine." 

"Even with the same materials?"

He nods. 

"Then how are they different?" 

"Your's last longer." 

Zelda frowns. "Did you confirm it? Have you done a timed study on it?"

Link blinks, raises an eyebrow. Zelda goes to fetch her notebook. "Get someone who has a pocket watch," she calls behind her.

\---

 

She ends her annotation with a singular sentence:

_Hypothesis confirmed, yet further evaluation suggested._

They're gathered all around the night's campfire, a fine mess of stable workers and patrons. Their features alight from the glow. 

"It's incredible," says one merchant, the laugh already brimming behind his teeth. "All I saw all afternoon was him dashing back and forth, back and forth," He wags a finger in the air, loops it in circles. "And I've got this little girl here yelling at me, 'Time! Time!' And I'm yelling back: ' Three minutes! Nine minutes! No minutes--! I've dropped my pocket watch!" 

There's a clap of laughter from the group. The merchant pats Link on the shoulder. "This boy can run. Faster than all hell, I tell you, like he's got bunny ears on him," he says. "Are your legs tired?" 

Link groans. The group hoots again, all good-natured and warm. The merchant smiles. He points his thumb toward Zelda. 

"You need another potion from Miss Witch, then."

Zelda's got her arms crossed; stares at the dirt beneath her boots. There's no explanation for it, the discrepancy, and it frustrates her. Batch upon batch, the same odd results. Her's always garnering finer results. 

He was a good test subject, Link. But, Zelda had run him into the ground. Hours of running, drinking one concoction, running, drinking another... She put an end to it, finally, when he leaned over, mid-sip, and retched. His tongue tasting like tar. 

Zelda had put a blanket over his shoulders. Made him tea with honey. Apologized, and kept apologizing, and petted the hair back from his wet forehead. He had closed his eyes at the touch, tilted his head back, breathed hot and heavy, chest heaving because it's like he almost forgot what it feels like to breathe without that pinch in your side from running. His stomach was twisting, still, but her hand felt cold and it was nice.  

Before the evening's crowd had gathered for the fire, she said, "I still don't understand it. Why are the ones I make so different?" 

"The bloodmoon," had whispered Link, "Had a similar effect on elixirs."

 

"I've been needing a good elixir for these old bones," says an aged stable hand. "If what I'm hearing is true, and you've got a stronger batch, I'll buy an elixir off of you." 

"We're not in need of rupees," says Zelda. "I'll give one to you in kindness." 

The old man blushes. "Ah. A Hateno Cow, then?"

Zelda shakes her head. She pulls an elixir from Link's rucksack. "Take it," she says, handing it over the fire. "I made this one." 

Another in the group raises a hand. "If you're giving that away for free, mind if I have one too?"

"Take them all," groans Link.

"Sure nice of you," says another, "But can I get the one your hands made, Miss Witch?"

"Oh! Same! Please, Miss Witch." 

"Be polite, now," says the old stable hand. His voice quiets the lot. The only interruption now the crackle of the fire. "There's witches, and then there's the goddess blessed. Know your differences." 

\--

 

When there's something in his stomach other than monster parts and roots, the color in his face returns. The nausea passes. But the exhaustion had already settled well into his muscles. He had slumped forward a few times. And then tilted toward the empty spot to his right; each time startling awake when there was no weight to catch him. 

When the fire is at last beginning to dwindle, he slumps leftward, finding balance against Zelda. He's too drowsy to notice. Still feeling too off from it all. His head lolls onto her shoulder, already dead asleep at contact. 

She watches the hot, peeling wood. The glowing hollow spaces the fire makes of its kindling. She doesn't mind the weight on her shoulder. She likes the calm sound of sleep against her ear. The soft rise and fall of breath. The warmth from his face. The warmth in her chest. 

She had missed this. 

\-----

 

When she dreams, they're either nightmares or memories. And that night, she dreams of Urbosa. She dreams of her mother. 

Gerudo Town smelled like the sun, and to Zelda, so young -- just six in her mother's arms-- the sun smelled like a cold elixir: that earthy tang from a Lizalfo's horn; the summery sweetness of the Hydromelon. She'd hold her hands against her nose, breathing in the oils that coated them. Lovely. 

"Such a sweet little girl," said Urbosa, lifting her like a little cat. Urbosa was so strong, Zelda had thought even then. All of the Gerudo women were. 

"I want to be Gerudo," said Zelda.

Her mother smiled. Came close and pressed her forehead against Zelda's -- her face warm from the desert. "All little girls want to be Gerudo," she said. "Even I still want to be Gerudo." 

Urbosa laughed, the sound honey-smooth. 

\-----

 

Along the Bridge of Hylia, Zelda asks: "Do you remember your mother?"

There's a wind above the water. A clear sky. The air hot enough for the water to look inviting.

Link shakes his head. His eyes are to the distance, trailing the water that flows beneath them as they walk. He's uncomfortable with the topic, his posture tightening. Lips down turned. 

And, "I'm sorry," whispers Zelda. "I shouldn't have asked when I knew the answer." 

She lets the silence settle. Turns her eyes elsewhere. To Vah Naboris in the distance; the Temple of Time just anterior. Her stomach twists. 

She pauses; her feet stall against the stonework.

"Link."

He looks to her.

"I've been afraid," she says. And it's so quiet, Link strains to hear her over the faint breeze. It's willing them forward, this wind; pushing against their spines.

She says again, "I've been afraid, to talk about our mothers and fathers. Or Urbosa and Mipha. Or Daruk and Revali. To talk about them. To really talk about them." 

He says nothing. 

"Because I thought," she continues, "There's too much pain in it. Sometimes, I think, it's better to keep moving, and not open old scars. But--"

She presses her lips together. Tilts her eyes up, back to Vah Naboris.

"But, it's still there." Necrotizing the soul, she wants to say, but refrains. "It's so cruel of me, but I wish sometimes you remembered, because I don't know... I don't know how much better or worse this all affects you. If to be without memory helps or--"

"It doesn't." 

She goes quiet.

The wind has stopped. The lake goes still. 

She watches him search for words. How his hand folds and unfolds itself at his side. How his eyes look heavenward. How his brows furrow. Lips open, close, open. 

He's going to give up on it; breathe out through his nostrils any words he had dancing behind his teeth. 

Zelda steps forward. She's desperate; she's selfish, she knows. But she needs this. Something. Some words that prove she's not alone in this terrible trauma. "Please," she says. "Please, don't leave me alone in this. I'm listening; please say it."

"I met your father," he says, finally. "And Urbosa and Mipha, and Revali and Daruk. The spirits of them, at least. And I remembered them. Bits of them, and I--"

He swallows. Goes quiet. Tries again. 

"And when I met them again-- it was the first time for me. This me. It felt like meeting a stranger. What did they expect? Who was I supposed to be? Or do?" His lips twitch. He's so uncomfortable to speak it all, she sees it. "Or say? I wonder sometimes, why had Mipha cared for me? Or Daruk, or Urbosa? Had they liked me? Did I like them?"

He presses a hand to his face. And Zelda watches, transfixed, unused to watching him ramble. 

"I'm mourning the loss of people I barely know; I'm sad when I think of them, and I barely know why," he whispers, voice rough. "I feel hollow, and I don't have enough memories to fill it." 

She's close enough, she thinks. She could take the hand that rests at his side; she could reach out, feel the warmth of his palm, the roughness of his calloused fingers. She could wrap her arms around his shoulders. Cup her hands around his face. Say something, anything. 

But she stays still. Two feet between them. As alone and broken and ruined as he. 

And Link says, at last, "I want to." His eyes met Zelda's. "When you're ready, I want to talk about them." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: in which Link at least knows to not include Revali in the "I wonder sometimes, why had Mipha cared for me? Or Daruk, or Urbosa?" speech. 
> 
> I'm so overwhelmed by all of the comments, bookmarks, reads, kudos -- just! Ah! Thank you!! You have no idea how much this keeps me writing and makes my otherwise boring life worth it! <3 
> 
> See you next chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

She had begged him to stop running. In those deep night hours, when the night sky had been stained orange from rouge fires, she rooted her heels in the mud. Jammed back her arm from his grip. She couldn't take it, watching him limp across the marshy field. Hearing that hiss of breath as his heel made contact with earth. She would not move, she decided. She refused to go on with him. 

And "Zelda," he had pleaded. Resolve already lost; his voice was half-strained, almost every word from his lips now half a sob. "Zelda." He gripped her shoulders. She met his gaze.

Cruel Hylia, they were so small. They were so young. So dumb and naive; golden children with bloody hands. Her father's paling body was still hanging limp from the rafters. Her mother's grave upended. Friends -- the closest thing she had ever had to friends -- left to rot in metal cages, left like a sacrifice to be slain.

Who did they think of when they died? 

There was screaming above the forest-line. "Goddess Hylia!" It called. "Goddesses three! Don't let me die here!" A sharp blast. Another fire. The anonymous voice quieted.

Link was still gripping her, but he had moved and twisted, pulling her upward and attempting to hoist her over his right shoulder. But his stance was shaky. His footing uneven. She struggled against him.

"Your ankle's broken!" Zelda wailed. "Stop it! Stop!" 

She banged her hands against him. Kicked her feet. He had a good grip, arms entangled around her torso. He was strong; of course he was strong, she thought. But she kept thrashing. He couldn't get her far over his shoulder -- the pain in his half-cracked body was too great, her flailing too wild. 

It was Zelda's stirring that sent them downward. With the majority of his weight on only one foot, Link fell easily; the wet earth slipping out from under his boots. But, he had some bearing about him; he gripped her tightly and shifted enough to break the landing with his shoulder. 

They landed with a thud. The sword at his back clanging against his spine. Sprawled out on the damp earth. Facing one another. 

He had barely caught his breath before he was speaking. "We can't just sit and die here," he said, hanging onto her still. His eyes stung.

"No," she said. A whisper, barely. It was drizzling. It was cold. "I'll go on. They'll chase me. Just me." She pressed her hands against his chest, pushing, barely. "You can hide. It's easier to not have me as a burden. Let me go back to the castle. Let me--"

"And do what?!" The first time he lost his temper with her. The rise in his voice shook her. She could feel his body tremble with it. 

"I don't know!" Her voice faltered. That little hitch she hated; always appearing when she was most uncertain. "But you'll die if we keep going! I can't live with the idea that you could--" That heaviness in her chest again. Another sob threatening. She steeled herself. She took in a breath. Pressed her forehead against the back of her open hands, against the warm chest beneath her palms. 

He held her, still. She took in another breath. 

"Your ankle's broken," she finally repeated; this time, her voice unwavering. "With that Guardian. I saw how it--"

He only shook his head.

"It's bleeding, damn it!"

"It's not broken." His voice was too calm. It agitated her. 

Hylia above, the ground felt like it was shaking. The whirring of machinery sounding through the valleys. Her heart picked up.

And, "Link," she whispered. He had heard the guardians too; how still he grew when that noise came closer. How his grip around her tightened. And against the cold, damp earth, she shifted, moving her hands to cup his face; to feel the warmth there. She pressed her forehead against his. And she said,  "You will die."

He took only but a moment to think. 

"When I die," he said, "It will be next to you. Now get up." 

\-----

 

There are a few scars he's curious about. Most, he guesses, are recently formed. Some from half-baked mistakes and ideas that are more embarrassing than they are funny. 

Koroks are, after all, in difficult to reach places. And trees, of course, are easy to fall out of. Always landing safely when pummeling from various heights is, yes, certainly, quite risky. 

Those scars, he can account for. It's the others that give him that pit in the stomach. 

The one on his left ankle is long and ragged looking. Its border poorly defined -- stretching into points and ridges as it spans across the bone. It's pale. Soft to the touch.

He wants to ask, sometimes, where it came from. Just like the multitudes on his rib cage, his shoulder, his back, knees. . . But words, as always, get trapped so easily against the back of his tongue.

She'll catch him, here and there, staring at the marks. Trying to make a memory out of hazards. She's some help. A soft, pinkish blotch near his wrist: "Cooking oil," she'll remind him. A long, jagged line near his elbow: "A bokoblin spooked your horse" A long line across his left hand, where when he aligns his fingers straight, the scar stretches from the pointer finger to the smallest finger, perfectly, in a straight line. 

"That one," Zelda lies, "I don't remember."

( _He had told her, long, long ago, that had said something stupid, as children often do. He was wild in youth; energetic and mouthy. Good swordsmen fight with the right hand -- he had always preferred the left. He wouldn't listen; he had spit back something cruel when told, again, to switch hands. And punishments in the training halls were often and strict -- more-so on him, for whatever cursed reason. So they laid his left hand flat on the stone. Took a blunt sword and cracked it across his fingers. Breaking skin. Breaking bone. He spent the next years fumbling dumbly with his right hand, but he learned._ )

 

He scrubs his boots near the fire. They're in Akkala. Their camp planted somewhere near the Spring of Courage. The trees are a bright yellow . The leaves crunch underfoot. He sits on the ground, one leg tucked beneath him. The other stretched straight. It's balmy, this morning. The air cold. The summer always ends sooner in the Akkala prefecture.

In the grove of trees, Zelda picks apples. Her hair is tied loosely into a braid; white strands coming loose. Framing her face. She wears a simple blue dress, sleeveless, with fabric long enough to touch her ankles. A white shirt underneath, the collar brimming up her neck, the sleeves to her wrists. Dark brown boots. She holds a wide cloth tied at the corners to create a makeshift bag. He watches her as she darts between trees, crouches down beneath the hollow skeletons of guardians. In the far field of the grove, a fox darts between white tree trunks, the red of its fur as bright as the leaves. 

"Let's bake these," she says when she returns, the bag heavy with apples and old screws and springs. Link sets his boots aside, half-finished, and leans forward on his bare feet to place the apples on the fire. 

"I prefer the Akkala region," says Zelda. She redoes her braid, threading the hair without much thought -- the motions well versed and memorized by her fingers. 

Link agrees with a hum and pokes at the apples with a small knife. He pushes some closer to the heat of the fire. They smell sweet; their skin wrinkles and chars. Link unpacks some butter, some sugar, a pinch of ground cinnamon, and sprinkles it on when the apples are cooked through.

When they've cooled, they eat quietly, listening to the little wind in the trees. The cracking of leaves. The grunting of hogs. Eventually, Link returns to cleaning his boots. He glances, here and there, at the scar along his ankle as he works mindlessly. 

"Are you curious about that one?" asks Zelda, tentatively. 

He glances at her. It's enough of a yes. 

"I'll tell you," says Zelda, and she stands. She pats the dry leaves and dirt from off her navy dress. Rounds the campfire and crouches beside him, near his outstretched leg. 

She hadn't even thought of it -- what that wound would look like when healed. She was sure when he had first acquired it that she would never see the scar it would leave behind. But here it was, as thick and long as her ring finger. Across the bone.

"We were getting close to the Ash Swamp. Near Fort Hateno," Zelda begins. "And I know I left you a picture near there, so maybe you have a memory that could help illustrate this moment."

Links nods, and despite the usual cold expression of his face, there's some tenderness there. The slight wrinkling of skin near the corner of his eyes; lips very slightly upturned. He says, "The memory I recalled there," and he clears his throat, "Was when you saved me." 

Zelda blinks. She whispers back, "When I saved you?"

He nods. 

"How did I save you?" 

His brows furrow; this being the exact sort of moment he shies from -- explaining. So he says, simply, "You threw yourself in front of me. With that guardian." 

It takes Zelda a moment. The action was so instinctual to her, she hadn't considered it being valiant. 

"I did," she says. "But, you were already so..."  _Utterly battered and_   _already half-dead_ , she wants to say. "If I had done something before, I would have considered it 'saving you,' but--"

"But you did." 

It's an odd thought to her.  

"It's because you did that, I'm alive," he continues. 

She's still quiet. 

His gut is churning. His face feeling warm. He looks down to his ankle, to avert his eyes from her's. She follows his gaze.

It's then her lips open. "I lost count of how many guardians you saved us from. One hundred? Two hundred? You were never dispensable to me, but in those moments that night, I had really believed nothing could ruin you, and that you were the only constant I could retain in my life." 

"But," she hesitates. "I should have let myself notice." And she reaches her hand out, without thought, to touch the edge of the scar. 

He doesn't stir. Instead, he watches her. 

"I should have let myself notice how greatly that overburdened you. There was no rest from it. One after another. Groups of them. I could hide, and close my eyes and pray. But you were always..." She shakes her head. "You never complain, do you? Your legs were giving out. You were tired. Goddess Hylia, of course you were tired. And just, over and over, the same thing. We would run. You would fight. We would run. All of that through that horrible rain on that horrible night. And your swings started getting slower, and your chest would rise and fall so much faster than it was before. And still, it was only after that guardian had knocked you aside that I really let myself fathom it: that I would lose you." 

The sun is in the middle of the sky. Their campfire wanes. Zelda's hand remains against his ankle, her eyes along the scar. She says into the quiet, "Thank you for staying by me."

Tentatively, he reaches out. He covers her hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I'm horrendous at balancing medical school and writing. Weh, so sorry for this late update!!! Thank you everyone SO MUCH for your patience! 
> 
> Also, here is something I need your opinion: would you prefer to have longer chapters, but have to wait 1 - 2 weeks for an update, OR would you prefer shorter chapters, but have quicker updates? 
> 
> And I'll NEVER get over how kind everyone is to me. THANK YOU for the comments, for recommending my story, for the kudos, your continued readership, your opinions, EVERYTHING! 
> 
> See you next update!


	6. Chapter 6

 

"You two are strange," says the man, and he eyes the slick blood dripping from the edge of Link's sword. 

It's raining. The drizzle stinging like needles in the wind. The moblins -- all slack against the wet earth -- decay quickly, dissipating into only bones and teeth. Zelda uncorks a red elixer. She hands it to the traveler. 

"This will help," she says. There's a pattering against the tent as the wind and rain smack against it. Zelda's hair whips in the breeze; she doesn't bother to pull it from her face. 

The man takes it and drinks quickly. He's in too much pain to refuse medicine. 

"Those moblins are mean," he says as Link approaches. "I was sure I was dead." 

Link says nothing; instead busies himself with the cloth Zelda hands to him. He wipes down the Master Sword. 

"Your eyes are like a demon's when you're killing," says the traveler. 

And to that, Link's head snaps up. It's enough of a statement, that his expression falters -- the usual coldness replaced by furrowed brows and an open mouth. Startled.

"That's an odd thing to say," comments Zelda. She retains her calm, only because she had thought the same thing before. 

\- - - 

 

She lets it unravel. A thread as thin as a hair from the crown of her head. Her hands are too jittery; her fingers no longer deft enough for fine needle work. 

Much less through skin. 

But it's gaping, this wound. Sore and raw and all kinds of terrible, marring the already blotchy skin on Link's left hip. 

_I shouldn't have_  -- she wants to start, and she knows how it would sound, this hissing of words through her teeth --  _given those elixirs away_. But she swallows it, this malice. This inner cursing toward those barely bruised, whom had crawled out from their nooks and called her "the little witch of Hateno," and begged for their share. 

Link twists when she pulls the needle through skin. And it's an awe, almost, how a red line of thread can pull two separated spaces together, to close up a wound that must have felt as painful as it looked.

She's halfway through the gash when he makes a sound through his teeth. A strangled, little gulp of a whine that forces her own lips open. 

"You fight differently than you did before." She's talking. She's not sure, even, where she's going with it, but if it's enough to keep all of the focus from the pain, she'll do it. 

"You were like . . . Ah, some great acrobat, or something, with that Lynel." 

He looks over to her. And while his face is all sorts of twisted (lips unaligned; nose crinkling; a redness to his cheeks), she can tell he's curious. She waits a moment before fastening the needle through the next layer of skin.

In a harsh breath, he chokes out, "What do you mean?"

"'What do I mean,' by acrobat?"

He shakes his head. "That I fight differently." 

"Ah," she breathes. 

His body jerks when she returns to her sewing. There's that warmth of pain in his leg he's well accustomed to, but never finds easy. For once, he can admit, the hard ground beneath their small tent feels horrendous on his side. 

Not that he's one to complain. 

"You were more meticulous," Zelda says. And she can imagine it -- how precise his stances were; the squaring of his shoulders; how much more firm his footing was; how much more polished his counter swings. Every step well versed. Each swing done thousands of times before. An approaching blade calculated at its angle, the movement to doge it already predetermined. 

She wants to tell him it looked like a skilled dance -- that he was even good at that, too. But there's a memory there that stings when she looks at him, this new him. So, she focuses on the present. 

"You follow your instincts more now, I think," she offers. "As opposed to what you had practiced over and over and over. It's--" and she lets herself wonder for a second too short if being honest is really so cruel "-- a bit more sloppy."  

Sloppy, like the stitches she gives him. 

And yet, he is in no means nonplussed; an arch of an eyebrow is all he gives her -- his bared teeth, she knows, is from her handwork, and not her words. He says, simply, "Sloppy?"

She can feel the little tug on her lips. "Am I offending you?"

He shakes his head. Blinks. 

"Since you're so open to it then," she muses, "You've always been a bit lazy, sometimes. And, careless. Not always, but, sometimes. Just, when you're a bit cocky. And that hasn't changed." 

"Huh." 

"But, back then, at least, you took a bit better care of yourself when you were serious." 

He frowns. Zelda ties the final lines of red thread into a tight knot. 

"But you know," she continues, coming down close enough to squint at her work as she finishes, "I don't mind fixing you. Anytime you need it, I don't mind. I'll take care of you."

 He can feel her breath on his skin. Warm and soft against his bare hip. His hand, pushing down the few inches of his trousers just above his hipbone -- only enough to show the precise area of the wound, and nothing more -- trembles, slightly. He swallows. Wonders if he hears it. 

And Zelda laughs, awkwardly, painfully. Her hands pull away from the finished work. She straightens herself and sighs. "I . . . feel like I sounded like Mipha, saying that." 

He looks at her, at her eyes darting to the side. Still uncomfortable with memories, it seems. 

But it is true -- of the very few memories he has of Mipha, such wording does sound familiar. 

"Of course," Zelda continues, "Mipha did much better at healing. She was a bit more useful in that realm. I have only elixirs and stitches and she had--" and Zelda lays her hands in her lap; she searches for words, "She had herself, and her natural talents. She didn't need anything else, really." 

Link settles on his back, the slight movement enough to burn.

"Careful," says Zelda. "I don't know how well that thread will hold." 

"It's alright," Link sighs. 

She nods. "Alright."

He watches the sky; the deep blue of the afternoon endless. Zelda wraps her arms around her folded legs. 

"I was," Link ventures, "Good friends with Mipha." 

And it's not so much a statement, but a question. One Zelda doesn't realize until he twists his neck to glance over at her, eyes all big and curious. 

She nods. "Since childhood. You were really close." 

"I've been told." That same look not leaving him.

"Link," Zelda says. She rests her chin against her kneecaps. "I bet it's annoying, to just be told you were something, or that you did something, or that someone meant something to you, but you have no proof of it. You just have to nod and accept it and assume it should feel special to you. It feels a bit like pretending doesn't it?"

His eyebrows raise. There's a movement there, at the edges of his lips. 

He whispers, "Yeah." 

And Zelda gives a little, sad nod, and hums in the back of her throat. "I can tell you stories," she says. And she brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Takes in a deep breath, and smiles, warmly. "Just like I promised."

\- - - - - - -

 

 

 

His father was stationed along the trade lines. Those winding, mountainous roads that spanned between Castletown and Zora's Domain. He was, by all accounts, a well respected knight, trusted as a liaison between the two kingdoms. He was skilled in numbers and measurements, in sword work and customs; a man well read, well educated, well trained. 

Yet, equally well pitied. 

The Zora -- as they were and remain -- prided themselves with their open court. Whereas Hyrule hid their monarchy away in grey-stoned castles, King Dorephan was accessible; only a staircase above his people. And he, too, took pity on this knight and his motherless child. 

The rumor goes like so: 

The child of the knight had been in appearance so often along his father, that at last Dorephan had asked for the reasoning. 

"My wife has passed," said the knight. "With the permission of my king, I have been allowed to bring him alongside me, as we have no other family to look after him. I am without other options." 

"I have a young son," said King Dorephan. "And a daughter. There are other young ones in the domain. There are mothers whom are mothers for many, not just their own. Just as you are my friend, so too can your child be as beloved as any other Zora young. Keep him here, where he can be safe." 

And the knight fell to his knees and cried. 

Or so the rumor goes. 

\- - -

 

 

 

 

Mipha's hands were soft. Tender and thin. Gentle as a breath as she brushed them through his hair; as she traced them over the stinging wound, just above his hairline. 

He was asleep in her lap. His mouth slightly ajar. Head cradled between her thighs.

And he had thick eyelashes, Zelda had mused, watching him. A narrow nose. A tiny, perpendicular scar just above the square curve of his right jawline. Had Mipha healed that mark as well? Had he so easily drifted to sleep, safe and happy, then too? 

Mipha was humming an old Rito song, one that Rivali had taught her on some lackadaisical day; a swinging of high and low notes. The tune swooping like a little bird in the wind. 

As graceful as she. 

"I'm feeling better..." whispered Zelda. It was brighter here, up on the ledge just above the Domain. The sun, inching lower, had no other mountain to duck behind. While the Domain eased into evening, they remained in the summer sun. "...About him. He's finally talking to me." 

Mipha smiled. A genuine, simple, and easy joy. "He has a lot to say." No sarcasm on her tongue. 

"Little by little."

The cut had healed, becoming a warm, white scar. Yet, Mipha's hands had not stilled. Thick bunches of gold hair drifted between the webs of her fingers as she combed, from the temples of his forehead to the crown of his head and back again. 

Zelda was lulled in the serenity of the moment -- the gentle hum that had resumed, the calm air of an approaching  summer evening; Mipha's delicate hands, Link's face, for once, at ease. She was a spectator, an audience; something of an outsider. It both pained and amused her. She asked, "Has it always been like this?"

And Mipha's contemplation, too, was a gentle one. The small arch of the brows, a little pull at her lips. She looked up to the sky, as if searching for a memory in the clouds. 

And then, with a timid smile: "It has, I believe. At least, I think so. He has changed since childhood, in many ways. But, this hasn't changed. And I hope it doesn't soon." 

"With the amount of trouble he gets into..."

"Yes, but not only that. Hylians are, if I may say so--" and she frowned. 

"Please do." 

"I know my life as only a Zora would, Princess Zelda. My father has lived through a century. And others I love have lived a great number of centuries more. And I know not just longevity, but how to heal. Give me pain, and I can ease it. A broken bone, and I can mend it. But give me a body that so quickly withers, and I am rendered helpless." 

Her hands stalled. The fingers outstretched. And so very tenderly they glided forward, cupping the sides of Link's cheeks, made pink by the evening chill. His eyelashes fluttered, yet he did not awaken. 

"I must accept," Mipha continued in a whisper -- perhaps more to him than to Zelda -- "To cherish what I am given now, and to accept what cannot be changed."

\- - - 

 

“May I ask you something?”

Late spring. She was fourteen years old. Yet, Zelda felt older than that; she had no commonalities with the other children of the court. Her status made her seem foreign. Her duties made her absent. The weight on her shoulders made her feel aged. 

But then, here was Mipha. Short and youthful in looks, despite her years. The entourage she traveled with to Hyrule Castle seemed to gravitate in her orbit. She was wise enough to act in her father’s stead; her goodwill visit a success in maintaining Hylian-Zora relations. Zelda’s own father, perhaps, respected Mipha more than his own daughter. 

“Yes, Princess Mipha. Of course. Ask me anything you wish.”

They were alone, finally; the last of the Zora guards had been shown to their evening quarters. The night had passed quickly. The Zora would not leave until the morning, and with the finest of the guest quarters just a short hallway from Zelda’s tower, she had walked Mipha there herself. 

It was nice, for once, to have an excuse away from guards and attendants. 

The grand wooden door of the room was half ajar. The ornate tapestries noticeable on the other side. Zelda’s hand remained on the doorknob, waiting for Mipha’s question before she pushed the heavy door open further. 

“It is an odd request, and I apologize for burdening you with it,” said Mipha. 

All these royal niceties. Mipha was eagerly polite. It would have been grating if it were an act. 

“Please, don’t be so concerned,” Zelda smiled. Forced. “I would be glad to help you in whatever you need.”

There was still apprehension. A moment of silence as Mipha’s lips pursed in second considerations. 

“I mean it.” And Zelda sighed, laying herself bare. She was too worn for pretending. “I’ll be heading straight to praying for hours otherwise.”  Was it odd to be so honest? “Give me something to do.”

And that was enough encouragement. Mipha came closer, to stand shoulder to shoulder. She placed a hand on Zelda's arm. 

“There is a royal guard in your ranks,” she said. She had such a sweet, little voice. High and breathy. “I saw him earlier, but had not a moment to say hello. He is a good friend of mine.”

 "I see.”

“If the time permits, if there is a chance...”

“Of course. What is his name?” There were a handful of names and faces Zelda knew. Pipit with the narrow face, skin looking like it was peppered with copper. Fledge, red cheeked, meek eyed...

“Link.”

 Oh. 

Zelda’s expression must have slipped — some downward pull on her features — because the white of Mipha’s face began to blush. Her eyes turned downward. Her hand pulled away from Zelda’s arm. 

Mipha stammered: “Do, ah, you know him, by chance?”

_Of him_ , Zelda contemplated saying. They had a few encounters, here and there, in youth. Here and there in passing. She knew of him, daily, in rumors. His reputation proceeded him. Handsome looks combined with exceptional talent was easily noticed among the ranks. 

A mention of his name too often followed with the words “prophecy.” It made Zelda’s stomach twist. 

“He seems strict,” said Zelda. His blank expression. His stance always rigid. “He’s very quiet.”

Mipha nodded. “Yes. He’s quite dedicated and extremely thoughtful.”

“Such is a kinder way to put it, Princess Mipha.”

She blushed. 

“Come,” said Zelda. She took Mipha’s hand, leading her down the stretch of the hallway. 

“May we go there, unattended?”

“It’s late. No one with a running mouth should notice.”

Mipha nodded, despite her worried expression. They slipped through a crooked, old door and down an earthy staircase. Into the deep pit of the castle. “I don’t want to overstep any rules.”

“There are many to overstep. Much more than in Zora’s Domain. But pay it no mind.”

She was delirious, Zelda. Desperate for anything other than cold chapel stones against her kneecaps. She felt — bypassing the sparse amount of guards in the hallways, a finger pressed against her lips in a ‘ _hush_ ’ gesture— her age. She felt her age. She was fourteen and young and stupid, for once. 

There was a knight stationed outside of the sleeping barracks. A scrawny, lanky thing, no older than Zelda, with a uniform still meant to be tailored. He shook at the sight of them: knees rattling where he stood. 

“At ease, sir,” said Zelda, feeling for a moment very much like her father. “There is no alarm.”

And the boy, overtaken by so close a sight of royalty, mewed, only, “ _Oh_.”

And that thrummed in Zelda. That little rush of ego, inflated, she assumed wrongly, by the red wine from dinner. Guards and the court awed at her father, but whispered her name in hisses. Boys her age never given a chance to utter her a word. 

“Our apologies for having come at such a late hour,” said Mipha. 

“Does the Daphnes Battalion occupy these barracks?” Zelda continued. 

The boy nodded. Face warm. Still shaken. 

“And is there a Link among the ranks?”

Another nod. Finally words, “And - uh - should I...? What can I ... your highness...?”

“If you could bring him out here. Quietly and without fuss, please.”

And the boy slipped away. The door closing with a subtle thud. 

When it reopened, there was a different face. 

There was, Zelda could admit, a newness to Link in the orange light of the hanging lanterns. A kinder looking face, seeming warmer to the touch. The cold color of his eyes had softened. The sharp lines of his cheekbones rounded by shadows. He had dressed quickly; hair otherwise tucked away was now splayed across his face. His beret was slightly off kilter. There was wrinkling where his boots met his pants. 

He made an immediate move to kneel. Zelda waved her hand at the notion. “At ease.”

She watched his eyes turn toward Mipha.

And there it was, for the first time Zelda had seen it: a smile, by all means unstoppable. 

Mipha, gripping Zelda’s hand all the tighter, beamed. She fluttered to him, alight and aloft, and embraced him. 

"I am so happy," she said, all breathy and sweet, "To see you again." 

He must have been eighteen at the most, Zelda figured. He looked younger when he smiled -- his true age apparent in happiness. She had slot him as older, as serious and dull as those closing in on their 30's, well worn from regimen and structure and beatings. 

Yet, around Mipha he laughed. Arms still around her shoulders, her head just low enough for him to rest his chin on top of it, he leaned into her and chuckled. What had she said? Zelda hadn't been listening; she was so taken with watching how his eyes squeezed shut, how wide his mouth went when he laughed (a warm sound, a bit deep). All over some quip about the journey to Hyrule -- some mention of a familiar name (Bazz, had it been?). Some sort of story that was familiar only to them. 

She felt alone again. 

And maybe Mipha sensed those sort of things, because she returned to Zelda's side. She intertwined her finger's between Zelda's. 

"Thank you," said Mipha. Her face, Zelda noticed, was still flushed. "I know this is against custom here, but to see one another again is no short of a gift."

Link had gone quiet; the laugh lines gone. His eyes to Zelda, his role as royal guard had returned. 

 

In the morning, when she passed him, he glanced at her once. Offered no smile. Bowed his head, and only kneeled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, forgive this late update. Each time I came close to writing, it seemed like that brick wall in my head called "revisions" got even taller and more menacing. I'm so sorry for taking so long. I promise this story won't be abandoned, so please stick with me. <3 
> 
> I want to say, especially (and I know I've said it before, but I'll never stop saying this), that it's the encouraging words, the feedback, the likes, the corrections (honestly, that helps so much; if you see a mistake in geography/facts/etc. PLEASE let me know! See: my last chapter wrongly naming the Spring of Courage. Oops!) and just, everything that you guys as readers are saying, that keeps me chugging on at this. Truly, you make this odd hobby of mine a happy one. 
> 
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> See you next chapter!


End file.
